IPS 3515 

0515 
|C6 
1900 
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The Convict's 
Daughter. 



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The Convict's Daughter. 



A DRAMA IN THREE ACTS 



BY 

Marius D Hoogesteger. 



ACT I 

Langdon's Country Residence. 

Claiming Another's Child. 

ACT II 
Sanford's Lodgings. 
A Father's Sacrifice. 

ACT 1 1 1 

Parlor, Langdon's Residence in Town. 

Liberty and Vindication. 



Copyright. 1900. by MaRIUS D. HoOGESTEGER. 



52386 

i-lbn*ry of Cor^f'-nm 

■^wo Cofits Received 
SEP 27 1900 

Copyright entry 

SECOND copy. 

Delivered to 

ORDE« DIVISION, 

OCT 17 I9UU 



CAST OF CHARACTERS. 

JOE SANFORD An Esoe^d Convict 

DAVID LANGDON A Retired Business Man 

DUDLEY WESTON A Stock Broker 

PHILIP RANDALL A Young Lawyer 

DANIEL WHITFIELD A Yankee Farmer 

MRS. LANGDON 

HELEN Reputed Daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Langdon 

DOLLIE WHITFIELD A Pert Young Miss 




5^^ 






THE CONVICT'S DAUGHTER. 



ACT ONE. 

Summer residence of the Langdon's on the Hudson. A gar- 
den. tSet house left Stone wall, back; gate, center. Rustic 
seat, right center. Table and chairs, left center. Stage 
Ciear, and door of house partly open as curtain rises. Dollie 
heard singing: 

Just a little sunshine, 
Just a little rain. 
Just a little happiness, etc. 
(Enter Dollie with broom and sweeps stoop.) 

DOLLIE — Oh, dear me! It seems as though I never would get 
through with the work this morning. I generally have Helen to 
help me, but when that fellow of her's is here she wastes all her 
time on him. Hello! here comes dad! 

(Enter Dan Whitfield, right.) 

WHITFIELD— Well, Dollie, this seems to be an awful long 
morning. 

DOLLIE — Yes, I should think so. I have been busy all the 
time and I ain't half through yet. 

WHITFIELD— Are you all alone? The folks gone away, have 
they? 

DOLLIE — All except Mrs. Langdon. Say, dad. I'm getting 
tired of staying here doing other people's drudgery. 

WHITFIELD— There, there, little one, you must not say that. 
Mrs. Langdon is good to you, and so is Helen. 

DOLLIE — Yes, when that fellow of her's ain't around to take 
up all her attention. 

WHITFIELD— Oh, well! he'll be gone in a day or two. You 
may be doing the same as she is before long, Dollie. 

DOLLIE — Yes. you ketch me at it. 

WHITFIELD— You're a likely girl, Dollie. There ain't one 
in the neighborhood your age that can do the work you are 
doing, and I won't be surprised if some day you will be some 
other man's housekeeper. 

DOLLIE — I think too much of you, dad. Of course, I won't 
say that I'm never going to get married because I might change 
my mind, but it won't be for a long, long time. 



4 THE CONVICT'S DAUGHTER. 

WHITFIELD— It's too bad Dollie, that your mother had to be 
taken away, but we'll get along the best we can. You be a good 
girl and mind Mrs. Langdon, and there'll be no trouble. Mr. 
Langdon and a gentleman from town will be here to dinner today. 

DOLLIE — I suppose Mrs. Langdon knows they are coming? 

WHITFIELD — Yes. I suppose you will wiaat some vegetables 
for dinner. Just give me a basket and I will get them for you. 
(Dollie gets basket from house.) There's no use scolding her, 
she means well, only she's a little thoughtless. (Dollie hands 
him basket.)) What do you want today, Dollie? 

DOLLIE— Oh! I don't know. 

WHITFIELD — Some corn, butter-beans and cabbage? 
DOLLIE— Yes, that will be enough. (Exit Whitfield, right.) 
Mr. Langdon and another gentleman. That means more work, 
I suppose. 

(Exit Dollie into house. Enter Helen Langdon and Philip Ran- 
dall, center.) 

HELEN — Well, Phil., what do you think of our country home? 

PHILIP — It is a beautiful place, and I am sorry to be obliged 
to leave it so soon. 

HELEN — Must you go away? 

PHILIP — Yes, I cannot possibly stay later than today, but be- 
fore I go I must ask you a question. 

HELEN — I wonder what it is? (Helen seated, right center.) 
These flowers we picked will make a lovely boquet. 

PHILIP — They are beautiful, and doubly so when in your 
hands. 

HELEN — Why, Phil., you are getting poetical! 

PHILIP — Oh, no! Miss Langdon, and if 1 were a poet I could 
not do justice to my theme. I believe you can guess the question 
I wish to ask you. 

HELEN— I don't know, Mr. Randall. 

PHILIP — I think it is unnecessary for me to tell you that 1 
love you. 

HELEN — How should I know, when you have never said a 
word about it. ' 

PHILIP — il think you have discovered it long ago. There are 
certain little signs, which no observing person will overlook, that 
tell the story too plainly; and even now it is difficult for me to 
find words to express the depth of my affection. 

HELEN — Oh, fie, Mr. Randall, you can plead a case in court, 
and yet you are at a loss for words to tell a girl that you love her. 

PHILIP — ^Had I felt assured that you regarded me favorably I 



THE CONVICT'S DAUGHTER. 5 

would not have hesitated to ask you to become my wife, but a 
number of more clever men have been showing you such marked 
attention that I had but little hope that I could win the suit. 

HELEN — It was nothing but society flattery, and meant noth- 
ing whatever. 

PHILIP— Then you do love me, Helen? 

HELEN— Yes, Phil., how could you doubt it? 

PHILIP — I cannot now, Helen. (Kisses her.) When are you 
going to make me happy? 

HELEN — Whenever you wish. 

PHILIP — Then the wedding day cannot be far distant. 

HELEN — I must put these flowers into a vase. Excuse me 
a moment. 

PHILIP — No, let me go with you. 

(Exit both into house.) 
(Enter David Langdon and Dudley Weston .center.) 

LANGDON — Ah! Dudley, there's nothing like country life after 
all. People may talk about the pleasures of the city, but I al- 
ways look forward to my summer in the country with the keenest 
delight. 

WESTON — The country is all well enough for rest and recrea- 
tion, after the season in town, but would you care to live here the 
year round? 

LANGDON — Indeed I would! Here is where my boyhood 
was spent, and here would I like to end my days. Since I re- 
tired from active business I have spent more time here than in the 
city. 

WESTON — Opinions differ, of course. For myself I prefer the 
city with its life and activity; there I can watch every change in 
the markets. 

LANGDON — Ah! Dudley, you have the natural instinct of the 
speculator. You live too fast, my boy; this worry and anxiety 
is wearing on you. Take my advice, engage in some legitimate 
business; the profits will come slower but you will be better off 
in the end. 

WESTON — I am all right, Mr. Langdon. I know the ropes 
now, and I'm going to make my fortune one of these days. 

LANGDON — You have a remarkable gift for business, Dudley, 
but with all your ability you have been a trifle wild: a little too 
fond of sport. 

W'ESTON — I am thinking of selling my racing stock and quit- 
ting the turf entirely. I may as well settle down now as any 
time. 



6 THE CONVICT'S DAUGHTER. 

LANGDON — An excellent idea. Then you intend to marry? 

WESTON— Yes, if Helen will have me. 

LANGDON— Helen! 

WESTON — Yes, she is the only girl I care anything for. 

LANGDON — But she is a mere child. 

WESTON — In this age, Mr. Langdon, there are no children 
outside of the nursery. 

LANGDON— Do you think that she— 

WESTON — Cares for me. I am doubtful, still a word from 
you — 

LANGDON— Stop right there, Mr. Weston. Do you think I 
would use my influence over that child's heart? No, if Helen 
ever decides to marry it will be of her own free will. 

WESTON— Well, I meant no offence. 

LANGDON— Then we'll drop the subject. 

(Enter Helen from house.) 

HELEN — Why, papa, you here! I didn't know you had come. 
Good morning, Mr. Weston. 

WESTON — Good morning. Miss Langdon. This is a lovely 
morning. 

HELEN— Yes, delightful. 

LANGDON — Excuse me a moment, Mr. Weston. 

WESTON— Certainly. 

LANGDON — I will be back directly, and then, if you wish, we 
will look over the place. (Exit into house.) 

WESTON — I am glad we are alone. Miss Langdon. I have 
been waiting for this opportunity. Won't you be seated? 

HELEN — Yes, if you wish it. (Seated chair, left center.) 

WESTON — Helen, I am at a loss to understand the coldness 
with which you have treated m.e of late. I hoped that my un- 
tiring devotion would awaken in your heart an answer to that 
love which I cannot express in words. 

HELEN— Mr. Weston! 

WESTON — ^Surely you cannot doubt me. My actions must 
have spoken more eloquently than words, and now I must ask 
you for my answer. You have never confessed that you loved 
me, but at times I have thought that my affections were in some 
measure returned, and I have been led to hope. 

HELEN — ^Mr. Weston, I never gave you encouragement. I 
have told you plainly that I did not love you. I appreciate your 
friendship, but I can never become your wife. 

WESTON— Then you love another? 



THE CONVICT'S DAUGHTER. 7 

HELEN — That may be true; but there will be no pleasure for 
either of us in a discussion of that question. 

WESTON — Do not be too hasty in your decision, Helen. I 
have wealth, social distinction, and an indulgent disposition. 
Promise to become my wife and your slightest wish shall be 
gratified. 

HELEN — Once for all, Dudley Weston, let me tell you that 
your words are useless. No honorable man would ask a woman's 
hand were he unable to win her heart. (Exit into house.) 

WESTON— .Within a week my note for ,$10,000 will be due. 
The bank has notified me that they do not wish to extend it, and 
unless I can secure funds in time to meet it I am ruined. If 
Helen Langdon would accept my proposal I could secure her 
father's endorsement until I had time to recover what I have 
lost, and save my credit for future operations. She is the only 
child and will doubtless inherit the entire fortune. I must make 
another attempt. I will not be put off so easily when there is so 
much at stake. (Goes up center. Enter David Langdon and 
Philip Randall, left.) 

LANGDON — So you and Helen have made an engagement of 
marriage? This is something of a surprise. 

WESTON — (A most confounded surprise.) 

PHILIP — Yes, Helen has promised to become my wife, and it 
only requires your consent to make us both happy. 

LANGDON — I want you to be happy, but unfortunately there 
is an obtsacle in the way. 

WESTON— (Good! I'll find out what it is.) (Listens.) 

PHILIP — 'I hope, Mr. Langdon, you have no objections to my 
marrying Helen. 

LANGDON — None whatever. The objection, if any, will come 
from you, or, at least, from your family. 

PHILIP— My family? On what grounds? 

LANGDON — On the grounds of family pride; they might ob- 
ject to your marriage with a woman whose parentage is a mys- 
tery, whose birth may have been in shame. 

PHILIP— What do you mean. Mr. Langdon? 

LANGDON— Helen is not my child. 

PHILIP— Sir? , 

LANGDON — Her real name is Helen Cartwright. 

PHILIP — But Mrs. Langdon speaks as if she — 

LANGDON — Mrs. Langdon believes Helen is her ovvn child. 
Sit down, my boy, and I will tell you the whole story. One day 
while we were out driving the horses became unmanageable and 



8 THE CONVICT'S DAUGHTER. 

overturned the carriage, throwing my wife violently to the 
ground. Before she regained consciousness a child was born to 
us, but it died the following day. The doctor, fearing that when 
my wife recovered, the shock of discovering that her child was 
dead might permanently unsettled her mind, advised me to sub- 
stitute another; the daughter of a poor woman who lay 
dying at the home of one of my tenants. The dying mother 
gladly consented, and pledged me to name the child Helen. 
Years have come and gone, and my wife's affection for her has 
grown so deep and fervent that I have never dared to undeceive 
her. Had Heaven blessed us with another babe I should have 
avowed all, as it is, I have I'emained silent. 

PHILIP — ^Her father's name, you say, was Cartriglit? 

LANGDON— Yes, Thomas Cartwright. 

PHILIP— Who was he? 

LANGDON — No one knows. The doctor and the wife of my 
tenant Bailey alone knew the secret of Helen's birth. Both are 
liead. 

PHILIP — And no other persons have any knowledge of it? 

LANGDON — None but ourselves. 

PHILIP — Then let her bear your name until she has taken 
mine. Whoever her real parents are, she is worthy of any man 
living. 

LANGDON — You are a noble fellow, Philip. It may be that 
your father would object to this, but in my heart I believe we are 
doing right. (Exit into house.) 

(Weston comes down center, looking left.) 

WESTON — Ha! ha! None but ourselves. Was there ever 
anything so fortunate? All is not yet lost. Let me see. I 
think I have all the facts, name, place, date, etc. I must find a 
father for Helen; some bold, quick-witted, reckless devil who will 
sell his soul for money. Ah, my lady! you may now be com- 
pelled to accept my attentions, and in a short time you will be 
glad to accept my offer of marriage. As the old saying goes, 
"Those who laugh last, laugh best." (Exit, left.) 

(Enter Joe Sanford, center, singing or whistling.) 

JOE — iWell, this is a pretty fine looking place, but I guess I'll 
tackle it, although I'm afraid it wom't do any good. People that's 
hardly got enough for themselves will generally invite you in, and 
give you the best they have in the house, but when you strike a 
place like this yoti are lucky if you get a handout. No dogs 
around, so here goes. I'll spring the same story of hard times 
and no work, and then give the girls a jolly about their splendid 



THE CONVICT'S DAUGHTER. 9 

cooking and the advantages of living in the country. (Knocks 
at door — Dollie appears.) Good morning, Miss, would you be so 
kind as to give a poor man that ain't had a mouthful in two days, 
and can't get any worK, a little something to eat? 

DOI^LIE — Wait a minute and I'll call the dog. Here, Sport, 
come here. 

JOE — Oh, never mind bringing on the dog; I don't eat sausage. 

DOLLIE — You don't! You must be a high toned tramp. 

JOE — Yes, Miss, I had a good bringing up. 

DOLLIE — Who are you, anyway? 

JOE — I'm nobody. 

DOLLIE — Where did you come from? 

JOE — Nowhere. 

DOLLIE — Where are you going? ' : 

JOE — To the same place I come from. 

DOLLIE— What do you do for a living? 

JOE— Nothing. 

DOLLIE — Then why don't you go to work? 

JOE — Well, I'll tell you. Miss, it's like this; when I'm hungry 
I ain't got strength enough to work, and when I've had enough 
to eat I don't have to. See! 

DOLLIE — You must get money somewhere to keep that nose 
of your's colored up that way. 

JOE — Sometimes I strike somebody that's dead easy, and get a 
good suit of clothes for nothing. That's something I've got no 
use for, and so I sell 'em. 

DOLLIE — And blow the money for whisky? You must like to 
drink. 

JOE — It comes natural. I was raised on a bottle. 

DOLLIE — That's no sign you've got to live on it now. I was 
raised on a farm, but I don't expect to stay here all my life. 

JOE — No, I suppose you'll go to the city, and get married. 

DOLLIE — Me! Not much! I've got trouble enough now. 
(Enter Helen, left.) 

HELEN — Why, Dollie! you here. I've been looking all over 
the house for you. 

DOLTJE — I'm entertaining a visitor; the worst specimen of 
a tramp I've seen in a long while. , 

JOE — Well, I ain't a professional beauty, that's a fact, and if 
you'll just wrap me up a little somthing to eat. I'll promise you'll 
never see me again. 

HELEN — Certainly you can have something to eat. Come 
right into the house. 



10 THE) CONVICT'S DAUGHTER. 

JOE — No, thank you, Miss, I ain't fit for that. Just give me 
a handout. 

HELEN— A what? 

JOE — I mean just give me something I can eat out here. 

DO-LLIE — (Aside) — ^When she's seen as many of tliese fellows 
as I have she won't think so much of them. 

(.Enter Dan Whitfield, right.) 

WHITFIELD— Well, I'll be hanged! If tramps ain't getting 
thicker than mosquitoes around here. They seem to take this 
place for a free lunch coiunter. Well, stranger, what ye looking 
for? 'Tain't work, I'll be bound! 

JOE — It's no use these hard times, pardner. There's too many 
better men after the same thing. To tell the truth, this silver 
and gold, 10 to 1 business has just ruined me. 

WHITFIELD— I should think you would be the last one to be 
affected by it. 

JOE — You're off there, pardner. I was one of the first to feel it. 

WHITFIELD— How's that? 

JOE — ^It brought about too much competition in my business. 

WHITFIELD — That's so, there's altogether too many tramps 
around here. 

JOE — Yes, there's so many amateurs in the business that even 
a professional can't make a living. 

WHITFIELD — Let me give you a little advice. 

JOE — ^I've got enough now to start a Sunday school. I need 
something more substantial. 

WHITFIELD — I suppose you've had your breakfast. 

JOE — No, not lately. You see, I get my meals so uncertain I'm 
a little rocky in my dates. There's nothing will so upset a man's 
domestic economy as eating yesterday morning's breakfast for 
dinner day after tomorrow. 

WHITFIELD — Dollie, you had better give him something to 
eat. 

DOLLIE — Helen has gone after it now. I suppose she will 
bring on all the victuals she can find in the house. (Enter Helen 
with waiter, etc.) There' didn't I tell you so. 
(Dollie exit into house.) 

JOE — Well, if this don't beat anything I've struck in a monlh! 

WHITFIELD — Willie Whiskers, you're in luck this time, sure 
enough. (Exit, right.) 

JOE— Thanks, Miss. This is the first decent meal I've sat 
down to in some time. 



THE CONVICT'S DAUGHTER. 11 

HELEN — I should think you would bo better off if you stayed 
at home. 

JOE — It's many a long year since I've known the meaning of 
that term. No, whether I'm in the hills of New England or the 
orange groves of California, it's all the same to me. 

HELEN — Then you are a regular tramp? 

JOE — Nothing else, Miss. To tell the truth, I've been in more 
strange places, seen more curious people, eac more queer grub, 
and drank more mean whisky than any man out of jail. 

HEIjEN — I'm awfully sorry for you. 

JOE — Don't waste your sympathy on me, I ain't worth it. 
I've got used to this sort of life and it don't worry me. 

HELEN — If you will stay here I'll ask papa to give you some 
work. 

JOE^Well, I don't knovv. It's so long since I've done anything 
of that kind I've most forgot how. 

HELEN — What are you accustomed to doing? 

JOE — I ain't got no trade. I am too light for heavy work, 
and too heavy for light work. I guess I'd better stick to my 
present occupation. 

HELEN — I'm sorry I can't do anything for you. 

JOE — Never mind me, Miss. I've always got along up to date. 
I don't really live, I just exist, like any other fungus growth. 

HELEN — Is there anything more you would like? 

JOE — No, thank you, I'd explode if I eat another mouthful. 
I'm a thousand times obliged to you. 

HELEN — You're entirely welcome, I'm sure. (Exit Helen, left.) 

J0E3 — She's a lady, anyway. The kind you don't meet every 

day. If there was more of them I'd get my meals with greater 

regularity. These doughnuts just fit my stomach. I'll take 'em 

along; there's no telling what luck I may have the rest of the day. 

(.Enter Dudley Weston, left.) 

WESTON — What are you doing here? You miserable beggar! 

JOE — First place, I'm no beggar second place, I ain't miserable, 
I'm happy as the day is long. 

WESTON — You appear to have considerable nerve. I am 
looking for just such a man. If you will do a little work for me 
I'll pay you well for it. 

JOE — I'm at your service. What's the job? 

WESTON — It requires a sharp, bold, quick-witted fellow. 

JOE— All right. What's the plant? 

WESTON— There is a young lady living here by the name of 
Langdon. Her supposed father is immensely rich. 



12 THIS CONVICT'S DAUGHTER. 

JOE — Yes, go on. 

r 

WESTON — I want you to assume the name of Thomas Cart- 
wright, and claim her as your child. 

JOE — And after I've claimed her, what then? 

WESTON— Then you will take her away. 

JOE — To live with me in poverty? 

WESTON— Yes, certainly. 

JOE — Say, Misteir, I'm a tramp; a ragged, dirty, good-for-noth- 
ing tramp, but before I'd be as mean and contemptible as you are 
I'd drown myself in a sewer so the rats could eat me. 

WESTON — Do you expect me to take that from you, you im- 
pudent beggar? 

JOE — I suppose you are considered a gentleman? 

WESTON — In the eyes of the worid, yes. I can tell you this 
much, a word from me will go farther than you imagine. So it 
will pay you to keep on the good side of me. 

JOE — The good side of you? — I didn't know you had one — I 
thought yoai was bad all through. 

WESTON — You'll have reason to think so if you don't keep a 
civil tongue in your head. Who are you, anyway? 

JOE — I'm a New York dude in disguise. 

WESTON— I think I've seen you before. 

JOE — I shouldn't wondei", I've met some pretty tough custom- 
ers. 

WESTON — Your name is Joseph Sanford. 

JOE — Correct, pardner, except that my first name ain't Joseph 
and my last name ain't Sanford. 

WESTON — il want to tell you a story from real life. 

JOE — Well, life is short. So boil 'er down. 

WESTON — Sometime ago a gentleman was visiting Sing Sing 
prison, and left his overcoat in the warden's office. On returning 
for it he was surprised to find it on the back of a trusted convict. 
On atempting to call the guard he was knocked senseless by the 
cowardly ruffian, who effected his escape wearing the gentleman's 
coat and hat. I am the gentleman who was robbed, while you 
are — 

JOE— At last! At last! 

WESTON— Joe Sanford, the jail bird. 

JOE — I offered to return the coat to you, but you tried to call 
the guard, and T wuokl have been punished for trying to escape. 
If you know what that meant you would not blame me. 

WESTON — ^Now that you see I'm acquainted with your past 
history I think you will listen to my proposition. 



THE CONVICT'S DAUGHTER. 13 

JOE — In Heaven's name, man, don't ask me to injure one who 
has befriended me. Have you no heart? No pity? I can't do 
that. I can't do it. (Sinks to ground.) 

WESTON — You know the consequences of your refusal. 

JOE — Spare me I Spare a miserable wretch! Here on my 
knees I beg for mercy. 

WESTON — Do you see the prison walls? The solitary cell, 
the lash? 

JOE] — Yes, I see it all. I can't go back to that place of tor- 
ture, that living death. I'll do your dirty work. 

WESTON — I thought you 'would come to your senses, you 
cowardly cur. 

JOE — (Rising) — Yes, call me a miserable, whining cur, for no 
honest dog would bite the hand that fed it. 

WESTON— Oh! Cut that! I don't admire such sickly senti- 
ment. You must make the claim at once. I will give you the 
necessary instructions. See that you follow them to the letter, 
or I will hand you over to the authorities as an escaped prisoner. 
Come with me and I will explain to you fully w^hat I wish you to 
do. (Exit Weston and Joe through, gate, to right.) 

(Enter Mr. and Mrs. Langdon, from house.) 

MRS. LANGDON— I must tell you about Helen, David. Some- 
thing that may surprise you. 

LANGDON— No, Philip has told me all. 

MRS. LANGDON — They are to be married soon. I dread our 
approaching separation. (Enter Helen.)) 

HELEN— Mamma. 

MRS. LANGDON— My dear child. 

HELEN— You look sad. 

MRS. LANGDON — I am thinking of the future. You are hap- 
py, and I rejoice at it; but you are going away, and I have a 
strange presentiment today that I shall lose my child forever. 

HELEN — Dear n^other, we shall not be separated. We intend 
to remain here with you. 

MRS. LANGDON — My child, how happy you have made me! 
T am foolish to think you would leave us. 

LANGDON — I am satisfied that we did right. They are happy 
and the secret will never be known. 

(Exit Mrs. Langdon and Helen, right. Langdon sits on bench. 

right.) 
(Enter Joe Sanford. center.) 

JOE — So this is Langdon's home. The dove cote that I've 
come to rifle. It's i desperate game I'm playing, and I'm a nice 



14 THE CONVICT'S DAUGHTER. 

subject to be claiming their daughter; but there will be a day of 
reckoning for the devil who has driven me into it. (To Langdon.) 
I beg pardon, sir, I would like tO' see Mr. Langdon. 

LANGDON — That is my name. What can I do for you? 

JOE — I am looking foir a long lost child. 

LANGDON— I fail to comprehend. 

JOE — Oh, no! you don't, sir; no, you don't. The child in 
question is here in your house. 

LANGDON — Nonsense, man! There is no child here by my 
daughter. 

JOE — You mean the one you call your daughter, for your child 
died on the day following its birth. 

LANGDON — Silence! My wife and daughter do not know of 
this. 

JOE — Then I'll speak lower. \ou see, sir, the girl's real 
father — 

LANGDON— Is he living? 

JOE — I shoiuld say he was. 

LANGDON— Do you know him? 

JOE — il am his dearest friend and most intimate acquaintance. 

LANGDON— Then you are— 

JOE — Thomas Cartwright. 

LANGDON— What shall I do? Oh, my wife, my child! 

JOE — Excuse me, please; my child. 

LANGDON — Your child, if you prefer. How did you find her? 

JOE — It was quite a job. 1 was put on the track by a man 
named Bailey. 

LANGDON — Bailey is dead. Perhaps you are deceiving me. 

JOE — I should have presented myself before but I was unwill- 
ing until I obtained the necessary proofs. 

LANGDON — Enough, I am entirely at your mercy. 

JOE — I am sorry to disturb the comfort of a well regulated 
family but — 

LANGDON — If half my fortune will purchase your silence, it 
is your. You do not answer. Name any sum. 

JOE — I regret to say it is impos-sible. 

(Eenter Helen and Philip, center.) 

HELEN — Papa, do we intrude? 

LANGDON — No, I have something to say to you. (Aside.) 
How can I tell her? (Aloud.) My poor child! I have a terri- 
ble secret to relate. 

(Enter Mrs. Langdon, right.) 



THE CONVICT'S DAUGHTER. 15 

MRS. LANGDON— Husband, what is the matter? What is 
this man. doing here? 

JOE — My business here, Madam, is to claim my daughter. 

MRS. LANGDON— Sir! 

JOE — That beautiful young lady by your side is not your 
daughter, but mine. 

MRS. LANGDON— What do you mean, sir? 

JOE — Ask your husband. 

HELEN — Father, answer us. 

JOE — You see, he is silent. Madam, during the time you lost 
your wits your own child died; and, by the advice of the dootoir, 
your husband substituted in its place this girl, who is my 
daughter. 

MRS. LANGDON — W^ho shall say my child is dead when she is 
here with her arms about my neck, clinging to her mother as she 
has ever done through storm and sunshine. Your story is false, 
sir. Leave the place immediately. 

LANGDON — No, let him remain. Since the fatal secret has 
been disclosed, let me explain. You have heard the truth, our 
child died when it was but a day old. Fearing that your reason 
would not on its return bear the intense shock of such a loss, we 
placed in your arms the child of a poor woman who had just 
breathed her last. 

JOE — And that poor woman was my poor wife, as I have just 
proved to your husband. 

MRS. LANGDON — But, sir, you will not take her from me. I 
recognize your rights, but think, she has been a child to us so 
long. 

JOE — I know you've been a good mother to her even if you 
ain't her mother, but it ain't natural — 

PHILIP — Surely you will let her remain? , 

JOE — I'm sorry to say, it is impossible. She must be known 
to the world as my child, and in order to preserve my authority 
I have decided to remove her to my own house at once. See 
her when you like. My house will be open to both of you, and to 
this gentleman. But now I am compelled to say she must go 
with me. 

PHILIP — You wretched vagabond! Would you drag her from 
such a home as this, and disgrace her by letting the world know 
she is your child. 

LANGDON — (Stopping him) — Philip, he is her father. 
TABLEAU. 
Mrs. Langdon and Helen, R. Langdon and Philip, L. 
Sanford. C. 

CrKTAIN. 



ACT TWO. 

A poorly furnished room, door center and left. Table at right, 
at which Helen is discovered crocheting. Small rosewood or 
mahogany box on table, containing locket and letter. 

HELEN — Ten days now — ten long days since I left them. 
They seem like years to me. I cannot understand why father 
should take me from them when he could have seen me at any 
time. In his rough way he is very kind to me, but perhaps he 
Tv"as jealous of my love for them. It is strange, I wrote and 
gave them my address, and not one of them has come to see me. 
(Enter Joe Sanford, center.) 

HELEN — I'm so glad you have returned, father. 

JOE — I didn't expect to be gone so long. Have you been lone- 
some? 

HELEN — Yes, I'm so nervous when I am alone. 

joe: — I got into an argument with a fellow on the money 
question. It's a mere waste of time to talk politics. You are 
sure to meet some old fool who won't agree with you. 

HELEN— What is the matter, father? 

JOE— Nothing at all, child. 

HELEN — What's troubling you; is there anything I can do? 

JOE — No. Tell me how you have spent the day. 

HELEN — As I spend every day, father, thinking. 

JOE— About what? 

HELEN — About my friends; those whom I called my friends, 
friends no longer, for they have forsaken me. 

JOE — You forget Mr. Weston. He has been here nearly every 
day. 

HELEN— Even Philip! 

JOE — (Aside) — Philip was her sweetheart. What a fool I am! 

HELEN — (Looking at clock) — I didn't notice it was so late, 
but i'U have supper ready in a few minutes. 

JOE — It ain't necessary for me, child. Get something for 
yourself, but I'm not hungry. (Joe about to smoke.) 

HELEN — Are you going to smoke, father? 

JOE — Yes, but dont' be afraid, my dear, it won't hurt me. I'm 
used to it. (Lights pipe.) 

HELEN — Oh, dear! I suppose I must learn to accustom myself 
to it. (Coughs.) 

JOE— What's the matter; got a cold? 



THE CONVICT'S DAUGHTER. 17 

HELEN — No. don't mind me, go on. 

JOK— Go on, what? 

HELEN— Smoking. (Coughs.) 

JOE— Oh, it's tLe tobacco, is it? 

HELEN — Never mind; I'll get used to it. 

JOE — Looks like it (Puts pipe away.) Can't stand the to- 
bacco smoke. No doubt the girl's been nicely brought up. I 
must cut this dodge of being father, it won't answer. Weston 
must get her off my hands. I'm not a father, but a house-maid; 
not a gentleman of leisure, but a young lady's travelling com- 
panion. (Gets hat and is about to go out.) 

HELEN — Are you going out again, father? 

JOE — Yes, for a few minutes. You don't minu, do you? 

HELEN — My mother — I mean — you know whom I mean — so 
spoilt me that I'm afraid of being left alone. She was always 
with me. (Joe puts hat away.) 

(Enter Weston, center.) 

HELEN — Mr. Weston, is there any word? 

WESTON— None, I regret to say. 

HELEN — Not from mamma? They cannot have forgotten 
me; yet this is the third letter you took. 

WESTON — I drove out to see them this morning. They were 
about to leave, and I learned that they intend to spend the re- 
mainder of the summer at the sea-shore. 

JOE! — That's devilish queer. 

WESTON— It's true, nevertheless. 

HELEN — Philip does not know, or surely he would come to me. 

WESTON— He has gone abroad, I hear. 

HELEN— Then they have all forsaken me. 

WESTON — They no doubt feel that you are lost to them, and 
endeavor, if possible, to forget you. 

HELEN — (Crying) — Gone! Gone! Oh my second mother, have 
1 lost you as I have the first? Oh, Philip! To think that you 
could be so base. 

WESTON — Do not waste your tears on them, Helen. Forget 
those who have forgotten you. 

HELEN— I cannot! Oh, I cannot! 

WESTON — When your grief has subsided, and your eyes, no 
longer dimmed by tears, can see more clearly, you will find in me 
a faithful friend, with a devoted heart, that loves you. 

HELEN — Do not mock me in my misery. If you could induce 
my mother to come to me you would earn my undying gratitude. 



18 THE CONVICT'S DAUGHTER. 

WESTON — Write once more, Helen, and you can rely on my 
doing all that is in my power to assist you. 

HELEN — Excuse me a few moments. I will write another 
letter. Perhaps if you deliver it in person she will answer. 

ESTON-^With pleasure, if you wish it. (Exit Helen, left.) 

WESTON— Well, Joe, how are things going? 

JOE — All right. I'm Thomas Cartwright, and she's my daugh- 
ter, sure as cheating. 

WESTON — By the way, did you have much tro'Uble with the 
old folks when you took her away? 

JOE — The old lady was going to have me throwed out, but the 
governor told her I was telling the trutn, and then she begged 
me to let her keep the girl; and then there was a young fellow 
there, her brother or lover, I guess, who was going to interfere, 
but the old man quieted him, and then I had it all my own way. 

WESTON— You're a noble feiiow, Sanford. 

JOE — Yes — next to you I'm the most contemptible thing th«l 
ever drew breath. 

WESTON — Hold on! I won't stand insult from yO'U. 

JOE — I'm only speaking the truth. If you think you can 
make me forget what a wretch I am by flattering me you are 
mistaken. I had a daughter, who if she is living is about Helen's 
age, and if any one treated her as I am treating this girl I would 
kill him as I would a snake that bit me. 

WESTON — I don't care to argue the question. How does she 
ta.ke it? 

JOE — No doubt she is delighted with these elegant apartments. 

WESrON — So she complains of them, does she? I expected 
that. 

JOE — Oh, no! She believes that I furnished them, and I 
haven't told her of the gallant gentleman who takes such an in- 
terest in her weiiare. 

WESTON — You seem to be sarcastic this evening. Perhaps 
it may be well to remind you that I can still make good my 
threat. 

JOE — Well, make it good if you choose. You can't do it 
without upsetting your own plans. You can't do worse than send 
me back to prison, and I would sooner be there than here, the 
way things are going. 

WESTON — What's the matter; does she make it too hot for 
you? 

JOE — On the contrary, she is too affectionate and obedient. 
She couldn't be more so if she were my own child. It is this 



THE CONVICT'S DAUGHTER. 19 

which forces me to realize what a friend I am. My very soul 
revolts at the outrage. It's heart-rending to hear her speak of 
her parents. She thinks they have forsaken her, when God 
knows they must be hunting high and low for her. If she must 
stay here allow her parents and friends to visit her. 

WESTON — I cannot permit any one to see her now; even Mr. 
and Mrs. Langdon must be kept in ignorance. 

JOE — But I told them they could see her at any time, and the 
young gentleman; her lover, I presume. 

WESTON — Confound him! He, of all persons, must be kept 
away from her. Now see here; I thought you had nerve but you 
seem to be unable to withstand a few tears. 

JOE — Well. Dud., I'm heartily sick of the whole business. I 
became your confederate to help you get hold of some of the old 
man's money, but not to drive a poor girl crazy, or prehaps to kill 
her outright. 

WESTON — Oh! she is not being abused as much as all that. 
I suppose she does miss her home and friends but she will have 
to get used to it. 

JOE — Well, I wish you would make some other arrangements 
and get her off my hands. I would sooner be behind the bars than 
to stand this much longer. There I would have no misery but 
my own to think about. (Enter Helen, left, with letter.) 

WESTON — Ah! Helen! You have finished your letter? 

HELEN — Yes. Will you deliver it for me? 

WESTON— Certainly. (Takes letter.) 

HELEN — Tell my mother I am dying to see her, and tell her 
where she can find me. 

WESTON— With the greatest of pleasure. (Exit Weston, 
center.) 

HELEN — I canot understand why mamma does not answer my 
letters. She must be ill, or she surely would send me word or 
come to see me. 

JOE — Yes, she took good care of you, much better than 1 can; 
still I'm going to do my damn — ^I mean my level best to make 't 
pleasant for you. 

HELEN — I have no doubt, father, that you are doing all you 
can for me. 

JOE— I know I'm not particularly handsome. You get your 
good looks from your mother. My manners are not what you 
have been accustomed to, but still, I am your father. 

HELEN — Yes; and if it wasn't for Philip Randall— 

JOE--Guess I don't know him. Who is he? 



20 THE CONVICT'S DAUGHTER- 

HELEN — He is a gentleman who — 

JOE — A gentleman; I thought I didn't know him. 

HELEN— I was— 

JOE — His sweetheart. Yes, I see. I had a sweetheart once. 
I loved her. Oh, how I loved her! 

HELEx<i' — I know my poor dead mother — 

JOE — Your mother? No, not by a jug — why, yes, of course, 
certainly it was your mother. but never mind, tell me about 
Philip. 

HELEN — We were to have been married soon, and now I 
haven't seen him since I left home. 

JOE — Does he know your address. 

HELEN — Yes, Mr. Weston has told him and Mr. and Mrs. 
Langdon. 

JOE — Tell me where he is,' and I will make sure that he knows 
where to find you. 

HELEN — ^No, father, my heart reproaches me for doubting 
him, but I wuo'ld not have you ask him for the world. 

JOE — Perhaps it would not do to invite him to such a place 
as this, I didn't think of that. 

HELEN — Oh, no! father, it isn't that, but it is possible that 
he knows our address and doesn't wish to come. (Knock at 
center door.) ' 

JOE — Who can that be? (Goes to door. Philip enters.) 

HELEN— Why, it's Philip! 

PHILIP — Yes, Helen, I've found you at last. 

HELEN — Tell me, my mother, is she well? 

PHILIP — Your mother; alas! the separation has nearly proved 
fatal to her. 

HELEN — My poor mother! How she must suffer. 

PHILIP — Yes, she has been under the doctor's care ever since 
you left. 

HELEN — Why did you not come to me? 

PHILIP — Not come to you! The day after your departure we 
went to the address given us by your father to find that you were 
not there and that no such person had eveir lived there. 

HELEN — But I put this address on my letters. 

PHILIP — Letters! You have not written. 

HELEN — I have written nearly every day since I left you. 

PHILIP — We have not received a single line. 
HELEN — How strange. But pardon me, you remember my 
father, do you not, Mr. Randall? 

PHIL.TP — Mr Cartwright, I am pleased to meet you again. 



THE CONVICT'S DAUGHTER. 21 

Our former meeting was not under very pleasant circum.stances, 
and I trust you will pardon me for my actions on that occasion. 

JOE — Yes, I would not have remembered if you had not re- 
called it. So this is Philip. My daughter has often spoken of 
you. 

PHILIP — No doubt, then, she has told you of our engagement. 

JOE — Yes, she has referred to it. 

PHILIP — Then I have the honor to ask j-our consent to our 
marriage. 

JOE — Would you marry the daughter of an outcast? 

PHILIP — She is the only woman in the world for me. 

JOE — But your family, they will object. 

PHILIP — Not when they know that the happiness of my life 
is at stake. 

JOE — Well, let me see; marriage is a serious business. I do 
not want to decide the matter now. I must have a litle time to 
think it over. 

PHILIP — I hope you will consider your daughter's happiness 
as well as mine, and allow her to keep her engagement. 

JOE — I must have a few days' time. Her circumstances are so 
different from yours that your parents would object, and perhaps 
later you will yourself repent of this rash declaration. 

PHILIP — You need have no fear on that score, Mr. Cartwright. 
I only ask that you give me an opportunity to prove ray sincerity. 

JOE — Young men of wealth and fashion are not usually so 
anxious to marry poor girls. I have seen something of this 
world, and it has caused me to lose faith in human nature. 

PHILIP — I hope, sir, that you do not consider my attentions 
other than honorable? 

JOE — No, but it is well to be on the safe side. My sole desire 
is for her happiness. I have been an outcast so long that it 
does not matter what becomes of me. 

HELEN — Why, father! We would not think of leaving you. 
Ycu shall come and live with us. 

PHILIP — Certainly, nothing would give me more pleasure than 
to have you make your home with us. 

JOE — Your devotion seems to be genuine. Phil., my boy, you're 
a brick, you're a whole brick-yard! Take her and be happy. 

HELEN— Dear father! 

JOE — How beautiful she is: those eyes, such a resemblance; 
but, pshaw! what am 1 thinking about; her name is Cartwright. 
she cannot be mv child. 



22 THE CONVICT'S DAUGHTER. 

PHILIP — How strange it is that none of your letters reached 
us. 

HELEN — I gave the last one, the one written today, to Mr. 
Weston to deliver for me. He said that you had gone abroad, 
and that my father and mother — I mean Mr. and Mrs. Eangdon 
had gone to the seashore. 

PHILIP — Then he was trying to deceive you. 

iiiiiLEN — Philip, you must go to my mother and let her know 
where I am staying. 

PHILIP — Yes, I will hasten to tell them the good news, and let 
them know where to find you. 

HELEN — You will come again tomorrow, Philip, and bring my 
mother? 

PHILIP — Yes, if she is able I will drive over tomorrow. Until 
then good-bye. (Exit, center.) 

HELEN— Good-bye Philip. I knew that Philip did not know 
my address. How Mr. Weston has deceived me. (Goes to stand 
and takes up locket.) 

JOE — I wonder what Weston will say when he learns that I 
have given my consent to my daughter's marriage with Philip 
Randall. My daughter! I am beginning to call her so even 
when I'm alone. I suspect that he has designs on her himself, 
and for that reason made me her father. It's only a part I'm 
playing, but when an actor plays a part he is bound to make the 
most of it; and if I must play the father's part I'll do it well. No 
father would give his daughter's hand to such a man as Weston, 
and though I was compelled to take her from her home I will 
not be guilty of forcing her into such a marriage. 

HELEN — (Placing locket around her neck) — My mother's 
locket! Perhaps she wore it next her heart, as I will from now 
on (addressing Joe). On the day I left home Mr. Langdon gave 
me this box which he said was from my mother. Among the 
things it contained was a letter. Do you wish to read it, father? 
(Hands letter.) 

J0I5 — (Aside) — It is a sacrilege for me to touch it. You can 
read it to me, if you like. It was undoubtedly meant for you. 

HELEN — (Opens letter and reads) — To my daughter: 

JOE — (Aside) — If her real father is described there she will 
discover all. 

HELEN — My dear child; in a few hours I shall have passed 
from this earth, and if you live to read this letter I hope it will 
find you happier than she who wrote it. You will be adopted by 
Mr. ?rd Mrs. T anedon. who believe my name is Oartwright; that 



THE CONVICT'S DAUGHTER. 23 

name was merely assumed by me to escape the disgrace of your 
father's imprisonment. I confess that I acted hastily in leaving 
him, for I now believe that he was innocent, and should you ever 
meet it is proper that you should knew him. 

JOE — Good Heavens! What is this? (Takes letter from her 
and reads.) You will be brought up as Helen Langdon, but your 
real name, like mine, is Helen Sanford. 

JOE — My child.' My child! My own child! And it was I 
who dragged you from your happy home; the hand that dragged 
you down was mine, your father's. 

HELEN— Dear father! 

JOE — Child! Child! You can never forgive the wrong I 
have done you. 

HELEN — There is nothing to forgive, father. 

JOE — To save myself — a worthless vagabond — I took you from 
your home, from those who loved and cared for you, and brought 
you to such a place as this. Why was I cowardly enough to 
listen to him. Why didn't I strike him down when he first pro- 
posed it to me? 'Tis but just to find that the victim of the plot 
is my own child. 

HELEN — No one can blame you, father, for demanding your 
own child. 

JOE — To think that after all these years, when I had despaired 
of finding you, I should be thus degraded in your eyes. 'Tis 
heaven's retribution. The hand of providence that punishes the 
guilty. 

HELEN — Then, father, your name is not Cartwright? 

JOE — No, it is Sanford, and you are my child, as the letter 
states. Your mother assumed the name of Cartwright, and a 
contemptable scoundrel, knowing the circumstances of your adop- 
tion and supposing that was her real name forced me to assume 
that name and claim you as my chx.d, but I will make amends for 
what I have done, and return you to those who have a better 
right than I to call you their daughter. 

HELEN — No, father. I am your child, and I will remain with 
yon; no matter what hardships may come I will love and care for 
you. 

JOE — Oh! child, child! I am not worthy of such love. You 
would honor a name upon which I have brought disgrace. (Knock 
heard at door.) 

HELEN — It is Philip returning with a message from my 
mother. (Opens door. Weston enters.) Oh! it is Mr. Weston. 

WESTON — Yes. do I surprise you? 



24 THE CONVICT'S DAUGHTER. 

HELEN — ^I was expecting Philip to return. 

WESTON — Philip! How did he learn of your address? 

HELEN — Not from you, for you have suppressed all my letters. 

WESTON— Miss Cartwrightl 

HELEN — My name is Sanford, not Cartwright. 

WESTON — There must be some mistake. 

JOE^ — Her name is the same as mine. Any fault to find with it? 

V/ESTON — No, but this surprises me. 

JOE — This is all in my part, you know. 

WESTON — So this is your work, is it? You shall pay dearly 
for this outbreak of virtue. ^our daughter, I am sure, will not 
believe the story. 

HELEN — Indeed I do, in spite of anything you can say. You 
told me that the noble family who reared me had forgotten me; 
that Philip no longer loved me; that they had all forsaken me. 
Mr. Weston, you lied. 

WESTON— Helen, I— 

HELEN — I repeat it, sir, you lied. 

JOE — You see, sir, she is learning her part. 

WESTON — ^I must confess that I deceived you, but I did so 
with the best of intentions. I wished to be your only hope, yoiu* 
only friend. I wished it because I love you. 

JOE — He loves her! Bah! (Helen looks at him contemp- 
tuously.) 

WESTON — I am aware that you will meet this avowal with 
disdain; but there is a future, and in that future I may hope. I 
love you as fondly as Philip and no obstacle stands in the way of 
my union with you. as to Philip, even if his relatives did not 
interefere, your father would never listen to your entreaties. 

JOE — Hello! Your're making me out a nice character. I'm 
not a brute nor a tyrant. 

WESTON — Well, then speak for yourself, but remember I am 
acquainted with your past history. 

JOE — Would you force her to buy my freedom by marrying 
you ? 

WESTON — Everything is fair in love and war, and the day 
will come when she will think of me less harshly. 

HELEN — I never loved, even when I respected you. What 
must my feelings be towards you now? 

WESTON — I am young and influential, and have the means to 
place you in your own circle again. I will take you from the 
home of this wretched tramp. 

HELEN— Stop! You shall not insult my father. Whatever 



THE CONVICTS DAUGHTER. 25 

he is, he is a gentleman at heart, a word not understood by men 
lilce you. 

WESTON — How sad it is that my education lias been neglect- 
ed. Perhaps I might learn from your outcast father. He must 
have been well schooled among his fellow convicts. 

HELEN — You coward. My father will refute that falsehood. 

WESTON — You may ask him how long it is since he wore 
stripes; how long since he escaped from prison; and while you 
do this I will call the officer to arrest him. 

HELEN— The officer? 

WESTON — Yes. This man — ycur father — is an escaped con- 
vict, and I propose to hand him over to the authorities. 

HELEN — Mr. Weston, have mercy! What good will it do you 
to send an innocent man to prison? 

WESTON — He is not innocent. He was tried and convicted of 
forgery. 

HELEN — Is there no way this disgrace can be avoided? 

WESTON — There is, if you wish to avail yourself of it. 

HELEN— And that is? . 

WESTON — Become my wife and T promise you your father 
shall not be molested. 

HELEN — Do you compel me to sacrifice myself in order to save 
my father from prison? 

WESTON— Decide; a husband for you or a dungeon for your 
father. (Helen hesitates.) Give me your answer. 

JOE — iStepping between them.) — You want your answer. You 
shall have it in one word. No! Go to your room, my child. I 
■will settle this matter with Mr. Weston. (Exit Helen, left.) 

WESTON— No! who says so? 

JOE— I do. 

WESTON— What are you? 

JOE! — I am nothing. 

WESTON — Then you've no right to interfere. 

JOE— Indeed I have, a father's right. She is my child. 

WESTON — Your child? You contemptible convict. 

JOE— Oh! I forgot. I'm not her father, it's only a part I am 
playing, but still you'll find that I have studied it and can act it 
true to life. 

WESTON— What do you mean? 

JOE— I mean that I'm following your instructions. 'Twas 
you who cast me the character and insisted on making me her 
father. You little knew what you were doing then; and now 
that I am her father I intend to act as such. 



26 THE CONVICT S DAUGHTER. 

WESTON — Oh! drop this farce; when she is my wife — 

JOE— Your wife? 

WESTON — Certainly. Old man i^angdon of course thinks just 
as much of her as ever, and will no doubt give her a handsome 
sum for a wedding gift. 

JOE — And that's what you're after. Well, you've forgotten 
one thing, and that is that you will have to obtain my consent. 

WESTON — Of course; I will make it all right with you. 

JOE — No, you can't make it all right with me. I won't toucii 
a penny of it. 

WESTON — Do you refuse to carry out my orders? You for- 
get. 

JOE — I forget nothing, Mr. Weston. She is my daughter, 
and I will not force her to marry a man she detests even to save 
myself. 

(Knock at center door. Enter Langdon and Philip.) 

JOE — So you've returned, Philip. I didn't expect you any 
more tonight. 

PHILIP — Mr. Langdon was anxious to see Helen, and I re- 
turned with him. 

LANGDON — My wife and I both wanted to see her, but she 
was unable to leave the house. You did not give us the correct 
address or we should have called before. 

JOEJ — That is something I am not responsible for. When I 
gave it to you I thought it was correct. (Enter Helen.) 

HELEN — Oh! Papa! I am so glad to see you. (Kisses him.) 
How is mamma? I am so anxious about her. 

LANGDON — She was not strong enough to venture out. She 
has been very miserable since you left us. (Helen turns to 
Philip.) 

PHILIP — We shall not be separated again, Helen. 

LANGDON — So, Dudley, we can thank you for this. Philip 
tells me that Helen gave you the letters which we never received. 

WESTON — I cannot see why he shciuld be so interested in her. 

LANGDON — You can't? I thought you were aware that he 
intends to make her his wife. 

WESTON — Mr. Randall, unless you are a hopeless idiot you 
will never marry her. You with your proud family and aristo- 
cratic relatives marry the daughter of a convicted foger, who has 
just escaped from prison? 

PHILIP — Do you expect me to believe that after the way you 
have lied to Helen? Even if your story does prove true, I intend 
to marry her. (Officer enters and stands at door C.) 



THE CONVICT'S DAUGHTER. 27 

WESTON— Just in time, Officer! There's your bird. 
JOE — (Aside) — I am in his power, but thank heaven, there is 
still a way for me to save my child from this disgrace. (Ad- 
dressing Weston.) Say, pardner! Suppose you show us the 
convict that dares to call himself the father of that girl. 
LANGDON— Then it is not true? 

JOE — Yes, it is true as Weston says. I am an escaped con- 
vict, and he, knowing this, threatened to send me back to prison 
unless I assumed the name of Cartwright and claimed her as my 
child. It's a lie from beginning to end. I am not her father. 
TABLEAU. 
Helen and Philip, L. Sanford and Langdon, C. Weston, R. 
Officer at door. 

CURTAIN. 



ACT III, 

Handsome parlor. Opening center showing hall and staircase. 
Hall lighted. Doors, right and left. Writing desk and chair, left. 
Table, right. Papers and magazine on table. 

LANGDON — Discovered at tabie reading. 

(Enter Mrs. Langdon, left.) 

MRS. LANGDON — Husband! here is something I wish to ask. 
you about. It is an invitation to Mrs. Nay smith's reception. 
I wish Helen would consent to go, but as she does not care to, I 
oresume we shall have to send regrets. 

LANGDON — I am sorry; I think it would do her good to get 
out. She is making herself sick worrying about her father. 

MRS. LANGDON— I am afraid Mrs. Naysmith will be offended 
if we do not accept her invitation. She of course knows nothing 
of this unfortunate affair, and we cannot tell her. I feel the 
disgrace as keenly as if Mr. Sanford were my husband and Helen 
my own child. i 

LANGDON — How much better it would have been if the secret 
had never been unearthed. If it had not been for that villain 
Weston, a man whom I had befriended and assisted, you and 
Helen would have been spared the pain of discovering you true 
relationship, and her father would still be leading the careless, 
apparently happy life he was when we first saw him. 

MRS. LANGDON— No, I think it is better for all of us that 
the truth has been told. I believe that the trials through which 
we have passed have strengthened the bonds of affection between 
Helen and me, and as for Sanford, he would probably have been 
nothing but a tramp for the rest of his days, but now he has some- 
thing to live for, and I believe he loves Helen as dearly as we do. 

LANGDON — Yes, poor fellow! Underneath his ragged coat 
ar.d reckless manner he had a kind heart. 

MRS. LANGDON— Ah! if he only knew the sleepless nights 
and anxious days she has spent on his account. 

LANGDON — And if he did it would only add to the heavy bur- 
den he has to bear. You and Helen have suffered, but think of 
the torture he must endure realizing that he has been the cause 
of it. 

MRS. LANGDON — It will soon be a year since he was taken 
back to prison. 

LANGDON — When I think of Weston's actions in this matter 



THE CONVICT'S DAUGHTER. 29 

1 cannot restrain my feelings. To think of what that child has 
suffered on account of his rascality. 

MRS. LANGDON— It is a terrible thing to have hanging over 
us. Sooner or later the truth must come out. Thus far we have 
been able to keep it to ourselves, but it cannot remain hidden 
forever. I am not feeling well. I think I will lie down a few 
moments. I have such a dreadful headache. 

LANGDON — Can I do anything for you? 

MRS. LANGDON — No, I think not. I shall be better presently. 
(Exit Mrs. Langdon, left.) 

l^ANGDON — ^Sanford made the only sacrifice in his power to 
save her from disgrace. If the fortune that I have accumulated 
during a long and active business career could restore to him his 
good name, I would gladly part with every dollar of it and con- 
sider it well spent. 

(Enter Dollie, left.) 

DOLLIE— Mr. Langdon. 

LANGDON— What is it, Dollie? 

DOLLIE — Mrs. Langdon wants to speak to you. 

LANGDON— All right, I'll go to her immediately. (Exit, left.) 

DOLLIE — Oh, dear mel Who ever did see such a state of 
things. Helen sits around the house looking sad and Mrs. Lang- 
don is sick about half of the time, and all on account of that old 
tramp that happened to stop at our place last summer. If I 
had only known he was going to make all this trouble I would 
have chased him off the farm myself with a broom-stick. The 
idea! Two ladies like Mrs. Langdone and Helen taking on so 
over that good for nothing critter just because he has got back 
in jail again where he belongs. I just know that Philip Randall 
is coming here tonight, because I caught Helen crying a little 
while ago. You bet I wouldn't cry if my beau was coming to see 
me. (Bell rings.) There he is now. (Without.) Step right 
into the parlor. (Enter Weston followed by Dollie.) (Aside.) 
Pshaw! it wasn't him at all. 

WESTON — I believe you are the same girl I used to see down 
in the country last summer. 

DOLLIE— \\Tiat a wonderful memory you have. I believe you 
are the same fellow that hung around there so much trying to 
make a mash on Helen. 

WESTON — You have got your dates mixed, my little girl. 
Y'ou are thinking of Philip Randall. 

DOLLIE— Oh, no, I ain't! I guess I know Philip Randall. 

WESTON — Does he still come here to see Helen? 



30 the: convicts daughter. 

DOL,LIE — Yes, nearly every day. (Aside — That's a whopper.) 
(Aloud.) He is going to marry her. 

WESTON — Oh! he is? When is this interesting event going 
to take place? 

DOLLIE — I don't know exactly. I'll ask Helen to send you 
a card. 

WESTON — Yes, do. I suppose it won't happen until her 
father gets out of jail. 

DOLLIE — Oh! That's the same story you tried to fool us 
with last summer. You know it's a lie. 

Weston — Oh, no! it isn't. It's true. 

DOLLIE — Well, if he really is her father, and stands as good 
a show of getting out of jail as you do of getting in, he'll soon 
be a free man. 

WESTON — (Bows sarcastically.) Thank you. You will oblige 
me by informing Mr. Langdon I am waiting to see him. 
Dollie bows and exits, left.) 

WESTON — I wonder what the old man will have to say when 
he finds that the money he gave me to invest for him has been 
lost in speculation. I may as well make a clean breast of the 
whole matter. He has trie>d to arrange an interview with me 
several times, but I had hoped to be able by hook or crook to get 
money to square myself with him, and if some of my friends to 
whom I have lent money at different times would come to my 
assistance I might have a different story to tell. (Enter Lang- 
don, left.) 

WESTON — Mr. Langdon, I presume this is rather an unex- 
pected visit. 

LANGDON — I must confess that I was not looking for it. 
What is the matter Dudley? You look worn and haggard. Have 
you been ill? 

WESTON — No, I have been worrying a little over business 
matters, otherwise I am all right. 

LANGDON — I am sorry to be obliged to contradict you but 
your countenance betrays you. You deceive yourself, but I 
can see that the life you are leading is ruining you, body and soul. 

WESTON— What fault is there to find with my mode of living? 

LANGDON— What fault is there to find with it? Look at 
yourself and answer that question. Does your appearance indi- 
cate that it agrees with you? No! Your face is pale and care- 
worn. Your hand is unsteady. Your step lacks the lightness 
and buoyancy of youth; you are growing old when you should be 
in your prime. 



THE CONVICTS DAUGHTER. 31 

WESTON — Well, we have but one life to live and we may as 
well enjoy ourselves. A short life and a merry one, is my motto. 

LANGDOlN — That is the mctto of those who, like yourself, fail 
to appreciate the opportunities of life; who think only of then- 
own pleasure regardless ot its consequences upon others. 

WESTON — \ou have no right to speak to me like that, sir. 
I am no criminal, and I do not wish to be treated like one. 

LANGDON — Why should I bandy words With you? You have 
tle.ibeiately pmnged into specu.ative schemes and neglected your 
business; which may not have been criminal, but which looks very 
suspicious, and has swept away all the confidence people once had 
in you. 

WESTON — It is true that I have been unfortunate in some of 
my ventures, tut a man must take some chances or he can expect 
no returns. 

LANGDON — But when a man acts as agent for others and dees 
not carry out their orders his intentions may not be criminal, but 
his actions are certainly open to suspicion. I have been more 
lenient with you than I ought to have been, but I wished to give 
you an opportunity to straighten cut your affairs if possible. I 
have called at the office to see you, but was never able to find you 
in. I have not even been able to find you at the club. 

WESTON — I have not bean there this season as I am no longer 
a member of the organization. 

LANGDON — You used to spend most of your leisure hours 
there. 

WESTON — So 1 did at one time, but those days are gone. 
When I was prospering I always had plenty of friends, but now 
that I have lest my money my company is no longer agreeable 
to them. 

LANGDON — You speak of losses, Weston. What do they 
amount to. It cannot be anything serious. 

WESTON— It is worse than that, Mr. Langdon, it is ruin. 1 
placed every cent that I could scrape together on margins when 
I felt sure of a rise; but contrary to all predictions the market 
fell, and T found myself penniless. 

LANGDON — That of course pertains only to your own funds. 
You certainly have not nsed what belonged to others in your reck- 
less .and foolhardy venture? 

WESTON — Unfortunately, sir, I have used that in the same 
way. I may as well be honest with you. 

LANGDON — Yes, do, for once in your life! 

WI3?T0N — I must confess that for the past two years I have 
live>l beyond my means. I lost considerable money on different 



32 THE, CONVICT'S DAUGHTER. 

races and tried every conceivable way to regain it, but luclt lias 

been against me. 

LANGDON — Luck against you! You infamous scoundrel! 
The man who bets another's money on horse races and uses it in 
speculations is not only a knave, bui a fool who courts cer- 

.,aau casaster. 

WESTON — I admit that you are justified in saying that, but 
circumstances should be taken into consideration. 

LANGDON — There are no extenuating circumstances in your 
case, none whatever. Ycu are not only a spendthrift, but a thief. 

WESTON — Yes, I admit it. In my feverish desire for wealth 
I have not hesitated to use any means, however dishonorable, to 
gain it. I have even committed crime. 

LANGDON — 'If when you had squandered your own money you 
had turned your back upon the things that were leading you to 
destruction; if you had faced the future bravely, you would have 
found many an honest hand to help you; but you chose to cover 
your indiscretions with crime rather than to recover by hard work 
and frugality that which you had so foolishly wasted. 

WESTON — I know I have nothing left. Money, friends, repu- 
tation, all is lost! , 

LANGDON — This explains your actions in attempting to force 
Helen to marry you, when you knew she cared nothing for you. 
I could forgive you for squandering my money, but I never can or 
will forgive you for the part you played in forcing Sanford to take 
her from us, and sending him back to prison because he refused 
to let you marry her. 

WESTON — That only shows how. desperate a situation I was 
in. Drowning men grasp at straws, and I took those means to 
save myself from ruin and disgrace. 

LANGDON — And to save yourself you would disgrace others 
who were not to blame for your misfortunes. A man who would 
enter the sacred relations of marriage under the circumstances 
you contemplated is to my mind the most contemptible creature 
that can be conceived of. 

WESTON — I have played my last card and lost, and I suppose 
I will have to take the consequences. 

LANGDON — As far as I am concerned, you may go in peace. 
Yet when I think of the anguish you have caused my wife and 
daughter I am tempted to lay violent hands on you. Leave me, 
lest my feelings overcome my judgment. (Exit Weston slowly, 
center.) 

LANGDON— To think that it has come to this. That the boy 
with such bright prospects: whose career I watched from boy- 



THE CONVICT'S DAUGHTER. 33 

hood; should turn out to be an embezzler. Even now, with the 
evidence before me I tan scarcely believe him capable of such 
actions. (.Dollie passes cloor, center. Langdon exits left.) 

WHITFIELD— (VVithoulJ— Well, Dollie, I have found you at 
last. 

DOLLJE — (At center) — Why, Pa! How did you happen to 
come here? 

WHITFIELD — Oh!. 1 got kind of lonesome down in the 
country, so I thought I would come up and see the folks. 

DOLLIE — Let me take your hat and coat (takes them). How 
is everybody down in the country, anyway? What's the news? 
You haven't told me a thing yet. (Enter Dollie and Whitfield, 
center.) 

WHITFIELD— Well, just give me a little time. I've just 
barely got into the house. There ain't any news in particular as 
I know of. Old man Simpkins is down again with the rheumatiz. 
He ain't done a stroke of work in two months. 

DOLLIE — You don't say! Where is the school teacher board- 
ing this winter? At Deacon Smartweed's? 

WHITFIELD — No, Jim Hawley has got the school this year. 

DOLLIE — Well, Jim always was smart at books. 

WHITFIELD — They say he is a good one to keep the boys in 
order, too. 

DOLLIE — How is Maggie Parsons? Ain't she and Cy Sloman 
married yet? 

WHITFIELD — No, I guess she is willing enough, but I don't 
think he has got spunk enough to ask her. 

DOLLIE — Yes, that's the way. The men are supposed to do 
all the courting, but most of them need some woman to show 
them how. 

WHITFIELD — Uell, DoUle, how- are you getting along here, 
anyway? ' 

DOLLIE — Oh! I am having a great time. I'm learning to 
play the piano, and I'm going to dancing school this winter, too. 

WHITFIELD — That's all very well for rich folks, but a farm- 
er's daughter had better be learning to cook and do housework. 

DOLLIE — Now see here. Dad! You ain't going to scold me 
the minute you get in the house, are you? 

WHITFIELD — No, I won't, Dollie; but I am afraid that after 
you have been here awhile longer with these fine folks you won't 
care much for us farmers any more. 

DOLLIE — No. sir; T often think of the old farm, and I'll always 



34 THE CONVICTS DAUGHTER. 

think more of you than of any one else in the world. I only wish 

you would come to the city to live. 

WHITFIELD — ^Well, the city's all right for folks that's got 
money like Langdon, but i think a poor man like me is just as 
well off in the country. You're having a good time here and I'm 
glad of it, but if you had your own row to hoe you would be 
better off at home. (Enter Ivangdon left.) 

LANGDON— Well, I declare, Mr. Whitfield! I am glad to see 

you. How do you do? 

WHITFIELD— Oh! I am first rate, thank you. How are you? 

LANGDON — I am pretty well. Sorry I can't say the same of 
Mrs. Langdon. ' 

WHITFIELD— Ain't she well? Sorry to hear it. 

DOLLIE — Excuse me. Dad. I'll be back in a few minutes. 
(Exit, right.) 

WHITFIELD— All right, Dollie. (To Langdon.) Ain't Mrs. 
Langdon well? sorry to heart it. I suppose she still worries 
about that affair of last summer. 

LANGDON — Yes. She has never quite recovered from it. But 
how are things getting on down in the country? 

WHITFIELD — Fine; never see things looking better. Of 
course there ain't much to do now except taking care of the stock, 
but we manage to keep busy tinkering around. 

LANGDON — I must come down some day when I get an op- 
portunity and pay you a visit. 

WHITFIELD — Yes, do, and when you come bring the whole 
family with you. I'll tumble you all into the big box sleigh, and 
give you an old-fashioned sleigh-ride. 

LANGDON — And then have a turkey dinner at the farm house. 
I believe I should enjoy that immensely. 

WHITFIELD — Well, when you get ready to come just send 
Dollie down a day or two before, sO' that we can get things in 
apple-pie order. Of course Jim and me can get along all right 
when we are alone, but I wouldn't undertake to get dinner for a 
party of city folks. 

LANGDON — Certainly not, it's too bad that you have to get 
along without her as it is. 

WHITFIELD— Oh, well! I don't begrudge her the good time 
she is having. She worked pretty hard all summer and I am 
willing she should enjoy herself a little now. 

LANGDON — Why didn't you let us know you were coming? 

WHITFIELD— Well, I'll tell you. David, I came on business. 
I got a letter some time ago from one of them pension lawyers 



THE C01>JVICT'S DAUGHTER. 35 

asking me to make application lor a pension. I don't hardiy 
know what to do about it. I goc to tUinKxng the mattei* ovei- 
and I don't know whether I am entitita to it or not. 

LANGDON — That's for you to say, Dan. "iou remember, don't 
you, that you and I were in the same company. Many a time we 
fried our hardtack over the same fire. 

WHITFIELD — Yes, and drank cut of the same canteen. We 
stood shoulder to shoulder in them days, David. 

LANGDON — Yes, you stood by the country when your services 
were needed, and now if the situation is reversed it is no more 
than right that the country should stand by you. 

WHITFIELD— I hadn't thought about it in just that way be- 
fore. 

LANGDON — You were never wounded, were you? 

WHITFIELD — No, never got a scratch, but I can remember 
of being about half shot on one or two occasions. 

LANGDON — Here, Dan, have a cigar. You are used to pulling 
weeds. (Whitfield makes one or two attempts to light match on 
his trousers — Langdon lights his own cigar and holds match for 
Whitfield.) Let's go into the other room where we can smoke 
and talk over old times. (Exit both, right.) 

(Enter Philip and Helen, center.) 

PHILIP — What is the trouo.e, Helen? i cu appear sad this 
evening. 

HELEN — No, Philip, i am not myself these days. It is nearly 
a year since my father was taken back to prison. 

PHILIP — We all believe him innocent, and I am sure that we 
will soon be able to prove it. 

HELEN — Ah! I am afraid that even he has ^iven up all hop? 
of that. We have heard nothing of him of late. 

PHILIP — Perhaps he is free. 

HELEN — And perhaps he is dead. 

PHILIP — I don't believe it. I feel sure that your father will 
"^^on appear with his good name restored; a man whom all will 
be proud to know. 

HELEN — Phil! Have you heard — 

PHILIP — Nothing definite, but I feel sure that T may soon a^k 
you to fulfill your engagement. 

HELEN— Do not speak of that now. 

PHILIP — But you promised a year ago. 

HELEN — That promise I renew. When my father stands be- 
fore the world honored and respected I will willingly become you- 



SEP S7 \^ 

36 THli CUxWlCT S DAUGHTER. 

vvij.e, but until then you must not speak of it. 

PHILIP — But if you father is at this moment a free man? 

tiii;LEN — Philip, you are not deceiving me? 

PHILIP — No, he will be here directly. (Looks center.) He 
is here. (Enter feanford, center.) 

HELEN— Father! 

SANFORD — My dear child! How happy I am to see you 
again. Philip, my boy! (fchakes his hand.) 

PHILIP — I am the happiest mvan in the world, for Helen is 
now free to keep the piomi&e she made to me a year ago, and be- 
come my wife. 

SANFORD — Take her, and accept with her a father's blessing. 
My children, this is the moment for which I have hopeu and pray- 
ed ever since the day I discovered I was her father. 
(Enter Mr. and Mrs. i^angdon left.) 

LANGDON — Sanford! Is it possible, and a free man! 

SANFORD — Yes, at last I am able to greet you without a blush 
of shame. (Enter Whitfield and Dollie, right.) 

WHITFIELD— Well, I declare! If here ain't the tramp. 

DOLLIE— iSure enough! 

SANFORD — A tramp and a convict no longer. 

WHITFIELD— Oh! So you have been pardoned. 

SANFORD — Not only that, but Philip has secured positive evi- 
dence that the crime fof which I have been imprisoned so long 
was committed by another. 

MRS. LANGDON— And by whom? 

SANFORD — By Dudley Weston, who succeeded in shielding 
himself and fastening the guilt upon me. 

LANGDON — And you have suffered all this time for a crime 
that he committed? 

SANFORD— Do not speak of that, sir. Let us be thankful 
that the child who is so dear to all of us has passed out of the 
dark shadow and is no longer the convict's daughter. 

TABLEAU. 

Mr. and Mrs. Lang^don, L. Whitfield and Dollie R. 

Philip Sanford and Helen C. 

CURTAIN. 



